


Burn Your Bridges

by lunarcrowley



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aggression, Alternate Universe, Angst, Being There For Yourself, Dalish Culture, Deviates From Canon, Diplomatic Inquisitor, F/M, Frustration, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Iron Bull Choosing Not To Care, M/M, Mild Sexual Tension, Old Writing, Sarcasm, Sneaky Solas, Soft Blackwall, Some modern language, Takes Itself Too Seriously, The Fade, Two Inquisitors Meet Each Other, Unresolved plot, Varric and Cassandra Bickering, concerned dorian, dream weirdness, kind of a crack fic, mythos, poetic prose, rude humor, snarky inquisitor, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 21:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarcrowley/pseuds/lunarcrowley
Summary: A tale of two Inquisitors - what happens when you try to relate two playthroughs of Dragon Age: Inquisition? Really bad metafiction.





	1. revenant

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy this weird little experiment I wanted to do. Please don't be too hard on me, this began as a joke, and I'm not really sure what it ended up as. Thank you for reading!

then the maker said:  
to you, my second-born, i grant this gift:  
in your heart shall burn  
an unquenchable flame  
all-consuming, and never satisfied.  
from the fade i crafted you,  
and to the fade you shall return  
each night in dreams  
that you may always remember me...  
\- canticle of threnodies 5:7

It was dusk, and the usual overwhelming bustle of Skyhold was beginning to die down as nighttime descended. Tynnian Lavellan sighed deeply into the long empty hallway, and hiked his way to his vast quarters in the top of the castle, footsteps heavy on the stone stairs. His face was sullen and his bones ached from a long day of being the righteous Inquisitor. But he'd eaten a good meal, had a few drinks, his wounds had been bandaged and the company of his friends always made it that much easier. He could disperse his stress, if only for a slice of time. 

He managed to drag himself to his bed and fall unceremoniously onto the mattress, barely bothering to kick his shoes off. His eyes shut in an instant, and he felt himself being encircled by the warmth of sleep, comforting, swallowing his daunting burden, and his crushing doubt. It was welcome; but sometimes, the warmth did not come at all, and instead, only the cold, sharp bite of nightmare. He was grateful for a well-deserved breath of air in his last few moments of consciousness.

He slipped easily past the eaves of darkness, spiraled into the world of dreams at last. He was weightless, every sensation was light and soft and barely there. He stood in a small clearing, carved out in ancient trees, the grass emerald and swaying beneath his feet. The air smelled sweet and fresh, like home.

He was wearing his favorite armor, his maul strapped to his back: but he felt none of the fatigue that usually accompanied. It was so bright, spots of shade and golden sunshine through the treetops. Slits of sky above were a gentle powder blue, dusted with clouds. A calming atmosphere.

He knew this place. A secluded spot in the forests on the edge of the Free Marches, the home of the wandering clan Lavellan. This was where he would always come to find peace, to contemplate. At rare moments, the Fade would grant him a blessing and his dreams would flourish with old, dear memories of young elfhood, of life in the clan as a naive boy. Of happier times, before the war, before the conclave. When he hadn't known how truly ripped apart Thedas was. The time preceding his life-changing mission as a spy, after which the burden of such a worldly leader was so unexpectedly thrust to his arms. Or rather, to the shallow scar on his palm. 

He knelt beside a stream that curved its way through the lush foliage, sparkling and crystal clear. Mountain water. He stared into it, at his reflection: windblown hair, the color of honey, squinting azure eyes, skin flushed pale. A furrowed brow. His forest-green vallaslin stood out starkly on his forehead, and branching from his lower lip to his chin, the blood writing of the All-Mother Mythal. He didn't know whose face he was looking at anymore. Who was he, a hero? A leader? The Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste? Just a foolish little Dalish boy? His large ears stuck out from his head in a way he'd never liked, like butcher knives. 

His chest rose with the tightness forming in his ribcage - his heart, it burned - his shoulders braced. Who could understand what this felt like, to carry the fate of Thedas on your back?

His hand sunk into the stillness to dissolve the elf in the water. He tore his gaze away, to the opposite bank. His expression had formed more of a grimace. This didn't feel like a dream anymore: he was still thinking of his troubles, hating the way things were. And there was no distraction to keep him from dwelling. Although he didn't know much of the Fade, or how he had really come out of it on the day the Inquisition had found him with a glowing hand, his dreams hadn't felt the same since: so much more real, instead of the blissful escapism of the beyond. Caught between this world, and the next. 

He splashed the cold water into his face, attempting to wash away his sudden twisting nerves, the sickening disquiet that he could more easily ignore on the battlefield. His senses began to receive vividly, each moment more wildly intense than the last. Even if it was all in his head. 

He heard a shuffle. His neck snapped up, sparkling droplets clinging to the tips of his hair. His first thought was Solas, wanting another conference in the dream world for whatever reason. And he didn't appreciate it. 

"Solas?" He growled. He was definitely not in the mood to deal with wise-ass comments. To him, everything that man said was the beginning of an irritating debate about culture and its significance. Tynnian did not know what he believed, but he did treasure the ways of his people, and nothing would ever change that. At least he thought. 

The trees parted, and a gust of wind broke the serenity of the clearing, rippling the surface of the water. All of the conflict had been contained within Tynnian's mind, after all, and his surroundings had remained placid. Funny how often that seemed to happen.

From the unusually void shade beyond a knot of tree trunks, a figure began to emerge. Two hands nearly blinded him, ignited with a fierce flame: so it was the mage. 

"I really don't feel like talking right now," He grumbled, turning to the side, away from the intruder. Perhaps it was rude, and uncharacteristically lacking in snark, but he was past caring. His hands tightened into fists at his sides. It was rare that he would let himself remain frustrated like this, let alone allow anyone near when he was in such a state. He was so very good at keeping a smirk pulled over all his inner struggles.

But; it was not Solas who entered the clearing, Tynnian discovered, upon a sideways glance. Someone entirely different was frowning at him, flames extinguished, hands planted firmly on curved hips. Solas didn't quite make such a striking appearance, not even hatless in broad daylight. She - at least she looked like a she, Tynnian didn't like to assume - looked just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. 

"Excuse me," She said politely, although it sounded grating and forced. A telling contradiction. "Who are you?"

Tynnian blinked and shrugged back his armor-plated shoulders. He hadn't thought about drawing his weapon, because he'd expected an annoying companion, but nothing else. It seemed a little late now. Her staff was tall and at the ready, sparking with electricity, a terrifying blade attached to the opposite end. 

Despite it all, Tynnian let out a low, wry chuckle, his hands unclenching and raising in surrender. His bitterness had spiked to its peak. "What's it to you?"

She stepped further from the cover of the wildflower bushes, the wind howling from the other side, and dissipating as the leaves shuffled. He could see her face now: defined cheekbones, jade green eyes, vallaslin - the same color as his. Also honoring the goddess of protection and justice: but simpler. Small, sharp ears poking from her copper-red hair. An elf, and a mage. 

"This is my dream," She said sternly, voice hard and clear, Fereldan. Her pretty face held an expression without tolerance, almost as dull as he felt.

His breath had caught, mind racing to understand. Events were now unfolding in a fashion that confused him. And yet, one eyebrow raised. "Pretty sure it isn't, serah," He quipped bluntly, his tone laced with triviality, as he slowly pulled his sledgehammer from his back, to lean on it. A gentle threat.

She watched his every movement like a hawk, like she'd hurl a fireball at any given moment. He didn't know what was going on here, but he was not about to be at its mercy. 

"What is your name?" She demanded, teeth audibly snapping together, her steps eating the space between them. She scaled the river in a single leap. She twirled her staff expertly between her fingers, her midnight blue robes billowing ominously.

"I could ask you the same thing," Tynnian nearly scowled, but pushed a cocky smile in its place. He hefted his mace with one hand, a show of strength. She was the intruder on his dream. If she wanted to perform a fatal spell, she would've done it by now. Curiosity held them both on the edge of a knife.

She rolled her eyes and planted her staff in the soft grass, grinding it into the dirt in front of her, for protection. She relaxed a little, standing taller, raising her chin. The diplomatic type, he noted. She tried a pleasant smile, almost convincing.

"Helios. Helios Lavellan. Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste." Her tone was flat, and her expression seemed to read, 'everyone knows who I am, what's telling one more?'

Tynnian gasped in shock, dropping the head of his mace back to the ground, cracking a stone. He'd lost his composure for a second - just from the sheer nerve. Claiming to be him? Yeah, like his job was something everyone wanted to have! He couldn't help his astonishment as he rested his palms against the grip of his weapon once again. As he looked at her in surprise, he caught a strange glimpse of himself. The tattoos, the eyes, the... ears. Her hair even looked like his, only a slightly different color.

"You can't be serious." He managed, after he'd stopped his initial breathless laughter. She deadpanned. 

"I've got imitators now? Or is it some sort of decoy system? I bet it was Leliana's idea!" He humored her, before bursting into laughter again. Unbelievable. 

"I suggest you quit it, fool," She hissed. Not just serious, dead serious. The staff leaned dangerously toward him, her fingertips swelling with mana.

"Just who do you think you are? Do you think the Inquisition is a joke? Do you have any idea the work I do, the work we're all doing, to fix this blighted nation? To save your sorry ass from a Maker-damned darkspawn magister on the brink of godhood? You know what happened last time someone mocked me like that? Do you want to find out, little man?"

Her words flooded out in sincere, building rage, beautiful eyes flashing with a clear, fearless intent. He could sense that her words were genuine, and she wasn't just angry because of his reaction: she'd held this verbal violence in for a long time.

Tynnian faltered, his lungs deflating. He'd slumped back against a boulder during her bold steps towards him, backing him into a corner. He searched for words as he stared blankly at her face, her chest rising and falling as she waited to strike him down. 

"I.... don't follow," He half-said, frowning deeply. This had to be an act, and a good one, at that. Perhaps a demon? But he'd dealt with demons, and she wasn't the same. Maybe she was a spirit, one who strongly identified with him. That much, he could infer - to his dismay, it was based on something Solas had drawled on about. 

He raised his hands again, gesturing for her to wait. He closed his eyes a moment, to collect himself, adjusting to a more comfortable sitting position against the boulder. "I don't think you understand, da'len." He attempted to use their equal race to his advantage. Lavellan? Was she from the clan?

He leaned forward. "I'm the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. Tynnian Lavellan." He spoke slowly, like explaining to a child. He wondered if she was just a lunatic from back home that he'd never bothered to associate with.

"Yeah?" She smiled then, a scary insane smile that came only from an unbearable amount of stress. One hand released her staff, shaking, a glow bursting from a cut on her hand. She grimaced, a swirl of all-too-familiar ghastly green snaking through the air. Seeing as they were probably already in the Fade, it wasn't like she could open or close a rift. But her palm began to pulse alarmingly, her face drawn tightly. 

Tynnian watched without breathing, jarred by the sight. The Anchor... it wasn't something one could fake. He felt fear: true, pure, uncontrolled. His skin went cold. Its dreaded, tainted energy vibrated towards him through the summer breeze, and his own hand began to jostle in response. He cursed as it sent sharp pains up his arm like it never had before, a force tugging at his muscles, his bones, like it would rip his hand apart to remove the mark. 

He stood, letting out a grunt as still, it pulled at him from the inside. He couldn't see her anymore, his vision blared with dizzying green. He was shoved into her, tripping over his maul, her staff jabbing him in the shoulder. The Anchors were sucking towards each other like magnets. His usually sturdy arm was like a noodle, flopping around weakly, completely out of his control. As was inevitable, their hands collided, and it hurt like hell. Her fingernails dug into his knuckles, he squeezed her fist with all his strength. A loud explosion followed. 

The sonic boom shocked through the air, sending them into a heap, their surroundings going monochrome for a moment. The Fade flickered, ripping itself, demonic energy oozing through the cracks. 

And, just as quickly as it had happened, it knit the damage, evil expelled with yet another deafening noise. The peaceful clearing of the dream was restored: save for the elves groaning, splayed out on the riverbank. Tynnian laid with his face buried in the grass, his hands clamped over his ears. And the mark, it surged and quivered, dying out shortly after, but leaving a dreadful ache.

And then, it was over.

Tynnian awoke with a dull gasp, shooting to sit up, drenched in sweat and tangled in his bedsheets. He stared into the blackness of his quarters for a moment, before collapsing back again, his limbs shaking. He'd never experienced anything like that before, not in the Fade, not in the waking world. It was too real. He pulled his hand from beneath the blanket to see it illuminated with toxic light, but it did not bear the same pain as before. 

He still felt queasy. He thought about doing something: getting fresh air, a drink of water, setting out to seek comforting words at the ever-late hour. But a convoluted weariness, one of once again not understanding what the tides of fate had tossed him into, teemed across his skin. He shoved his hand beneath his pillow and hid himself with the sheet. Later, he'd deal with it. Later.


	2. masquerade

Bright and early the next morning, the sunrise broke over the castle ramparts. There were expeditions to be had, nobles to meet, dragons to slay, rifts to close. Tynnian's head hurt like an axe through his temple, but his usual playful attitude held up miraculously. He strutted across the courtyard, greeting passersby, throwing smiles at companions, advisors, scouts, troops. The source of their hope. If anyone could tell he was screaming inside, they didn’t say anything.

Until lunchtime. At camp in the Hinterlands, Tynnian perched cross-legged on a rock even in his bulky armor, shoveling food into his mouth. His eyes closed under the hot sun, regaining a few seconds of lost sleep. Now that he’d taken a break from making smart comments, Cassandra and Varric began arguing again.

It was amusing, but also quite annoying – Cassandra enjoyed to attack him, even when Varric tried in vain to make a sort of tense peace.

“I can’t believe you ate the last apple, dwarf.”

“Seeker! I’m offended you would pin me with such a crime.”

“Pin you? I saw you take it!”

“You saw me take the second-to-last. Why not just eat an orange?”

“Don’t be daft, they’re not the same!”

And it went on. Tynnian rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t blame them. He was fond of both his companions, and they were the best he had of their classes, despite how much they disagreed on, well, everything. And that was why he coped with their constant sniping.

Dorian, the third member of today’s company, wandered over to where Tynnian slouched. He held the apple they were bickering over, shining it with the folds of his extravagant indigo enchanter’s robes. “Really doesn’t take much, does it?” He laughed quietly, examining the scarlet fruit before sinking his teeth into it.

Tynnian smiled, almost genuinely. Dorian returned the gesture, and then drifted to rest on the straw-like grass where Tynnian’s feet hung over the ledge. He looked out at the distance, upon the view of Lake Luthias sparkling down the hillside. “Listen, Lavellan,” He began in a low voice. “I’ve been meaning to ask you all day.”

Tynnian raised an eyebrow as he polished off his sandwich, and slid down the rock’s surface to sit beside his companion. He smirked. “You’re dying to know how I keep my hair so nice, even in the heat of battle?”

Dorian stole a glance at his angular face, allowing a chuckle. No matter what, the Inquisitor always had some sort of bold attitude. “Ah, yes. As much as I’d like to discuss vanity and what you’re doing wrong with your hair,” He surveyed Tynnian’s hairstyle as if critical. “I do have a concern.”

Tynnian did not meet his eyes. The Altus could sense something wrong: could he see through the elf’s defensive mask? His heartbeat sped up in anxiousness, a rare occurrence. He needed to evade, to appear complacent. To tarnish the face of it all was to begin the crumbling of everything the Inquisition had built, and there was nothing he feared more.

This was no mistake; Dorian would not admit to something being more serious than vanity unless he was determined. He knew him well enough by now. Tynnian’s gaze flickered back to Varric and Cassandra, still throwing the worst of shade at one another. The requisition officer, scuffing her feet in the dirt, agents nearby organizing supplies, shuffling through telegrams.

He allowed a few moments to pass before shifting to face him, pulling one leg to his chest and outstretching the other in a casual, confident position. There was work to do, people to save. But Dorian held him there in the spotlight, waiting. At least that was how it felt.

“Hit me. What so ails you?” He said overdramatically, miming a distraught clutching of his chest. His gauntlet clanked against his chestplate. Dorian gave him a look of slight resentment.

“How are you...coping?” His voice was gentle, and dangerously unsure. Tynnian hesitated, going hard in composure, and soft in the eyes. He looked slightly pained for a fraction of a second, and then forced a neutral expression, his act of mocking disappearing. It was an opportunity to explain how every moment of last night’s dream singed at his fingers, trickling to the Anchor. To open up about his true struggle. How he felt like maybe it wasn’t a dream – somewhere, somehow, he wasn’t the only one.

That door shut just as quickly as it opened. “Not well,” He said honestly. “You warm me so, Dorian. My heart, it…flutters.”

He meant it, but he was answering a completely different question than what was asked. He smiled sadly at the mage’s frustrated deadpan.

Before Dorian could fire a witty reply, confronting the way he avoided the question entirely, Tynnian stood and offered his hand. Taking another bite of his apple and glaring in dissatisfaction, Dorian accepted. This wasn’t over; but for now, he’d stop picking.

They were drawn close together upon standing. Tynnian lingered, recovering the sneaky glint his eyes usually held. He lightly touched Dorian’s robes, straightened them, and winked. Then he was gone, turning immediately to address the rogue and the templar.

He was pleased with the mild sexual tension he’d managed to generate with a single movement, even if it hadn’t been his original intention. However, he wasn’t proud of keeping in all his unsaid words to boil and fester. But opening the floodgates in the middle of an important quest to rescue a good farmer’s Druffalo? Not the answer.

“Oi, are you quite done?” He laughed, falsely, but hopefully convincing, swaggering over to the two, as he gathered up his two-handed weapon. “Andraste’s ass, yes. Let’s go,” Varric huffed, though he half-smiled at Cassandra, as though he’d won. He strapped on Bianca and straightened his mercenary coat, giving the inquisitor a knowing look.

Cassandra said nothing, only nodded to Tynnian, her expression looking like it could curdle milk. It didn’t deviate too much from how she looked normally, in fact – only once had he seen her expression change, and that was when he’d convinced Varric to write the next chapter of Swords & Shields, so he could give it to her as a gift. The stray thought of it made him smirk at her.

Dorian looked altogether done with their leader’s terrible attempts to avoid his problems. Clearly, he had some issues that needed to be talked out. The mage was actually rather surprised that he was willing and able to offer that sort of consoling: he preferred banter and clever conversation over heart-to-hearts anyday, especially when it came to himself. But Tynnian struck a chord in him.

All bitter and heavy with contemplation, the four of them stalked down the ravine.


	3. statuette

Helios Lavellan stood on her balcony, overlooking the mountains that reached into the sky, painted with the rich colors of the sunrise, blended to a bright smudge. The peaks were snow-capped, swirled with clouds where they kissed the heavens. It was still, quiet. She closed her eyes as first light shone onto her, setting her copper hair, golden skin ablaze. 

In these silent moments, before the dawn, she could find solace. It was hard to leave, to turn her back on the consistent calm of the mountains, to face the wrath of Thedas. In her memory there were flickers, ghosts of her dreams from the night before. A mirrored face, beautiful and strange, a surge of anger that poured into the Fade like she'd been cracked. Hands, clasped, pain and a strike of green lightning in the rupture. 

And then she'd been thrust from it, straining to keep her sanity from slipping from her gasp. A chill ran down her spine, as still as she held the stone rail, her hands like marble. Even in all she knew of experiencing and studying the Fade, knowing its laws and functions, she didn't understand this.

These thoughts were troubling at such an early hour, just another problem on her plate. Nonetheless, unpleasantness was unavoidable. She had to push it aside, because there were so many other struggles, live and writhing rather than faded in her head, that required her immediate attention. Mere concern, sparked by an oddly vivid dream. And that was all it was.

Putting on her enchanter's coat over her light leather armor for the day, she decided she'd forget it. As she descended to the kitchens to retrieve her much-needed breakfast, she cleared her thoughts. 

-

It was dark and gloomy when Helios met Scout Harding on the edge of Crestwood.

"Good to see you, Inquisitor. We've got trouble ahead," She was frowning. It seemed every corner of Thedas that the Inquisition set out to claim had some sort of crisis. She wondered what it could possibly be this time. 

"If you're on edge, I should alert the entire Inquisition," The elf summoned a half-smile, shrugging her shoulders back to loosen her muscles. Normally, she'd be diplomatic and blunt, but she'd become rather close to Harding, what with all the places she'd introduced to her. 

"Or increase my hazard pay, that's an option." Harding seemed relieved for a moment, her face seeming to lighten its burden.

Helios bit back a chuckle, deciding it was time to remain serious. "Are things that bad?" Her brow creased. 

Harding turned her head and gestured for her to follow. In the sopping rain, they turned to look over the hill's edge, over the crumbling stone wall. Down below, the waters of a dark lake sloshed about, and in the far distance, haunting green light erupted from the untamed surface.

"Oh," She said softly. 

"Crestwood was the sight of a flood, ten years ago, during the Blight," Harding explained. "It's not the only rift in the area. But after it appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake." Her expression became grim. "You'll have to fight through them to get to the cave where Ser Hawke's warden friend is hiding."

Helios's mind shifted to think of her meeting with Hawke. He had seemed tired, beaten down, stiff. They'd shared a bitter thought about how draining it was to have so many looking up to people like them to fix their hardships. To make the damned nation livable. She hadn't been angry with Varric for keeping the location of the Champion, and the facilitator of the mage rebellion, Anders, from Cassandra and the Inquisition, only stern. She believed Cassandra had overreacted. 

And this Alistair...she'd heard many things about him, she was eager to make him an ally. He was close with the Hero of Ferelden; at times, Helios found it eerie how much of herself she saw in the nation's savior from the blight, as self-righteous as it sounded. 

She switched back to the situation at hand, the impending danger. "Have any undead attacked the camp?" She asked, anxious for the safety of the scouts.

"We've had a few shamblers, but most of them head down to the village below." Harding gestured to the water's edge. "Maybe someone in Crestwood can tell you how to get to the rift in the lake." She sighed. "Maker knows they'll want help. Good luck, and please be safe." Her blue-green eyes seemed to hold genuine care, as she turned away to head back to camp.

Helios looked back to see her party members gathering nearby. Solas, arms crossed, expression inquisitive. He didn't look too pleased with the droplets cascading off his smooth head. Iron bull stood behind him, shoulders squared, waiting for something interesting to happen. Blackwall was wiping a bit of mud off his polished Grey Warden shield, and then unthreading a flower from his beard. 

"So, boss?" Bull asked, expectantly. He had that look in his eye, like if they didn't experience action soon, he'd make some.

"Break for lunch," She announced, clapping her hands together.

-

Just outside the village of Crestwood, Helios perched on the a branch of a gnarled tree. Shaded from the merciless rain, she opened an orange, flicking the peels down at Bull. The Qunari sat at the tree's base, innocently trying to take a bite of his bread, which he'd insisted on slicing off the loaf with his axe. The Inquisitor wore a gently amused smile, as he scowled and tossed the orange bits back at her, refraining from laughing. 

Solas was across from her, hidden among the wet leaves, smirking. He was strategically balanced, his staff pressed against the bark where the trunk and the branch met. He held a handful of berries he'd picked. 

Helios slid a slice of orange into her mouth, and glanced over to him. She was struck suddenly with a burst of memory: she blamed her passive state, in which she'd let her guard fall.

In the Fade, just after reaching Skyhold: wandering an abandoned, bright Haven, fluttering snowflakes and the breach in a silent howl above. Solas was beside her, leading the way. 

He told her he'd felt the world change. That she changed everything. She leaned close to him, placed her fingers against his jaw while he made to turn away, and met his lips. Apologetically, she stepped back, but he looked grateful for her bold gesture, and seized her in his arms to return her kiss with a surprising amount of passion.

She felt her face flush. He'd said it wasn't right, not even there - and it was true. But the remembrance of that moment triggered a flow of several others: fractured pieces from sleep, that psychotic man she'd met - his cynical laughter, his impossible declarations. The way his hand glowed like hers. She was suddenly hardening her outside, overcome with frustration buried deep in her subconscious. Her teeth ground together. 

Solas noticed her glaring at a bit of moss on the tree branch, and squinted, leaning forward. He wished to know what was in her head, every little feeling she experienced. To unravel her endless mystery.

Blackwall seemed to notice too, from where he leaned on another side of the tree, in cover from the rain, munching an apple and staring into the middle distance. Helios's legs dangled near him. He looked up at her, frowning, all of his attention suddenly focused on the look of strangled emotion carved into her beautiful features. He was guilty of caring a little too much for the lady Inquisitor... and she, a little too much for the warmth he could offer.

At this moment, Helios's hand gripped a lower branch, and she was so wrapped in her thoughts that she didn't notice as fire sprouted from her palm and seared through the wood. 

Blackwall caught the branch before it collapsed on his head. Helios let up at once, realizing she'd lost control of herself. "Oh, sorry," She sputtered, rather panicked, a flush rushing to her cheeks. 

The theoretical question marks floating around Solas's head were almost visible. Iron Bull, however, was simply wondering why he wasn't being pelted with organic waste anymore.

"Inquisitor," Blackwall began quietly, eyes darting to how the other elf fixed on her. He was about to ask her for a word, away from them.

The others pretended they weren't listening, but they were hanging on every moment.

Before anything could be said, Helios cleared her throat to interrupt him, abruptly jumping down from the tree as she avoided their stares. She landed neatly, leaves falling in her wake, and straightened her robes. She pulled her staff from her back and used it to keep herself grounded, her fingers sending sparks over the enchanted ironbark. That dream had a much more profound effect on her than she was willing to accept.

Blackwall rubbed his temple. She was so difficult to approach sometimes, and it was always made very clear when she didn't want to speak of something. Helios, in her chosen ignorance, felt a repressed bloom of guilt in her gut. 

No time for it now. Marching away from the tree with quick steps, she shoved the rest of her orange in her mouth. Muffled, she declared, "C'mon, Inquisition. We've got corpses to cut down." 

Iron bull let out a jeer of approval, and readied his heavy weapon. She heard Solas leap down as well, lighter than she had, his eyes glaring through the back of her head. He wanted to ask, so much, but he didn't. Had she thought of him?

He brushed her shoulder as he passed her, allowing their eyes to meet for a moment. He communicated unspoken, mischievous interest in her little display. She gave him a dark look, secretly embarrassed that she'd let herself slip up like that. It was her duty to keep her composure clean and dedicated. If that meant bare of emotion, then so be it.

Blackwall grumbled at her other shoulder. She was afraid to look at him: she knew she hadn't heard the end of it, and her gentle, sincere affection for him was reserved behind her walls, where he was so ready to be honest. She walked quickly, sharply aware of her position in being attracted to all three of the companions surrounding her at that moment.

Iron Bull was not bothered by all the odd tension suddenly floating in the air, or at least he did not care for it. He encouraged the way forward by charging towards a blurry, sluggish movement in the distance. 

They all followed suit: The Inquisitor casting in the back with Solas, Blackwall on the front lines with Bull. 

Helios hoped that politics and bloody duels with the undead would help all of them forget. And so they set off into the heavy drizzle, vision dazed by the fog, stained a sickly green.


	4. rendezvous

Helios stared at her bed from across the room. It was well past twilight; the moon was shining through the stained glass windows, the stars were beginning to twinkle. She had donned her sleeping robes, silk that slid across her skin when she moved, the most comfortable thing she had ever worn. She felt almost too pampered, the expanse of her quarters quite different from sleeping in trees and caves like she had with the clan. 

She had done much that day, conquered many new lands, gained helpful new resources. She was beyond worn out: but she could not set foot near the welcoming blankets of her bed without feeling anxious. 

What would she dream of tonight? More strange, confusing tales that tumbled about in her head, distracting her from her duties? Nightmares? 

She sighed, realizing that now, she was reading too much into the act of sleeping. She would only be sleeping. What could harm her while she slept? Besides spirits, demons, other mages, Corypheus...

This was getting ridiculous. Her eyelids were heavy, she could barely stand she was so tired. Somehow, she made it to her pillow, and gave in.

It was dark for a while. Dreamless. The way she needed it. But it did not last long.

She stood in a maze of trees, the wind whipping through the branches and whining past her. Again, she was fully dressed in her robes, her staff at her back. Usually, she would dream of Arlathan, of ancient times and places that she had only ever read about, and heard myths of: this style of dreaming was rather new to her. It was like she was tossed in, ready to fight instead of explore.

But she attempted to explore anyway. It smelled foul and daunting in the marshland she had been placed in, like something terrible was on its way. She had no doubt about that: these days, everything was always on the brink of disaster. She fought through stubborn branches, thorns and weeds, until, like the night before, she burst into a clearing where the sun shone and birds chirped. A secluded cove of paradise.

Her eyes adjusted, and she felt a creeping dread washing over her, despite the pleasantness of this place. It did calm her, and that was exactly why her walls strengthened. These were the kinds of comforts a demon would craft to lure in a victim.

As she wandered further, knowing to do nothing else, she saw someone in the distance. Leaning against a tree, arms crossed, glowering at the ground. He was familiar.

She trudged up a ledge of boulders, standing above him. It clicked, then, as much as she detested the conclusion. It was the man who mocked her, who claimed her title with ease. He set a bitter taste in her mouth. He hadn't looked up yet.

"You again," She hissed, without a second of pondering. 

He met her eyes in surprise, and though she expected him to frown, she received the opposite; he smiled in amusement. It set her aflame. She did not regret igniting her hand before... and she did not forget how his hand had done the same. It nearly made her head spin: but she was so very good at staying rooted to certainty.

Eyes narrowed to slits, she hopped down to land less than a foot from him, prepared to judge him like she judged her prisoners on her blood-red throne. He did not stir at her thunderous closeness, her hands charged with electricity: he leaned back against the tree lazily, arms unfolding to swing at his sides, expression both smug and vacant.

"Yes, it is me. And you're here, too," He said slowly, tilting slightly to the side. His smile was coy and almost provocative.

It took everything she had not to throw her fist at his chiseled face, as she studied him incredulously. His vallaslin were different from hers, but the same color: hers resided as wisps along her cheekbones. His blood writing honored the same goddess Mythal, and marked most of his face. She could deduce from this that he was either very dedicated, or a kissass. 

"Why do you look at me that way?" She demanded harshly, utilizing all her powers of intimidation. Her eyes shifted to catch a glimpse of his hand, but it was tucked beneath his arm against his ribs.

"No reason in particular," He mumbled, offhand, aloof. But he avoided her eyes. He didn't seem intrigued, or to care much at all.

Helios made a noise of disgust and considered the benefits of hitting him, like she so wanted to. The fact that she wished to interrogate him held her back. He wasn't like before - something was different.

She squinted for a few long moments, noting his sluggish demeanor, the way his body lolled about like he couldn't control it. Her conclusion didn't make much sense. "Are you drunk?" She asked, sounding equal parts authoritative and disbelieving. She'd never heard of anyone being intoxicated in the Fade. But, of course, this fool managed to do it. 

"No," Tynnian replied. But then he hiccuped. "Maybe."

"What the hell?" Helios rolled her eyes and then pinched the bridge of her nose. She was absolutely done with this entire situation, and she wanted him gone. She wanted to dream of more pleasant things. Before she could open her mouth and spout something offensive, he noticed her glancing frequently for his hand. Intoxicated stumble aside, he held it up for her to see.

Her words stopped in her throat and her gaze caught on the mark. She traced it with her eyes over and over. 

Tynnian obviously wasn't thinking clearly. He'd stayed out drinking with Sera that night, always a terribly fun decision, and probably wasn't even asleep in his own bed. He remembered something about Iron Bull, too. But it was all just a big swirling mess.

It was starting to become a pattern that he'd carry whatever physical and emotional baggage he had when he went to sleep, with him into the Fade. Easily another side effect of having the Anchor. Currently, his inhibitions were nonexistent, and he had no interest in some spirit who wanted to snap at him until he gave up information.

Helios didn't hesitate to act: she held her marked hand up to his, and she felt the Anchors line up exactly. A soft glow resonated around the place where they met, instead of the violent tug from their previous encounter. 

Astounded, she couldn't move, only watch and wait for something to disprove it.

"Why are you--" Tynnian began to protest, squinting at the smudge of green in his blurred vision. 

"You're not a spirit, are you?" Helios asked. She was smiling, in wonder, suddenly so very interested in this phenomenon, this mysterious troublemaker. Her anger was easily subsided with fascination.

"No." Tynnian answered, his clouded mind struggling to make sense of what was happening. 

"I'm not either," Helios replied. She didn't mean to whisper, but it was all her voice could manage. 

Tynnian frowned at their hands until the tactile information registered. "Oh," He breathed. "OH!"

Helios suddenly ripped her hand away, turning her back on him. This was not possible. She felt the grass becoming stiff with frost beneath her feet, her fingers flexing with cold shards. The wind shimmered around her. Her sigh curled into the air like a ribbon, and she began to pace. She tried to think, but every thought seemed to fall apart at its seams. 

"Th--"

"Shh!" She insisted, running her hands anxiously through her short hair. She could feel a tornado of panic closing in on her. 

"Wh--"

"Shut up!" She threw a blast of ice behind her, without looking. It narrowly missed Tynnian's shoulder.

Snowflakes came down in flurries over her, leaving white fluff only on the ground where she walked. Tynnian never could understand mages; often he thought them trivial, whiny, and overdramatic. 

He was shocked by all of this, because who wouldn't be? But by this point, he was willing to accept nearly anything as truth, especially when he was beyond smashed. The Inquisition had shown him that in reality, literally everyone was batshit crazy. Currently, he was needing to get those words out.

"Would you let me-- let me speak!" He blurted, and then tripped over his own feet in his stupor, and got a facefull of snow. 

Helios sucked in a sharp breath and turned, finally, gracefully furious. She was still convinced that whatever this was, it was probably his fault. He seemed the type. 

Tynnian just rolled onto his back and laid there, arms spread out, without the will to fight gravity. The grass was so soft, too, definitely more comfortable than wherever he was passed out. 

"I don't know...what's going on here," He murmured, his words running together. "But please do not impale me on an icicle. I feel like I might've already taken it too hard," He groaned, feeling particularly strained in his rear region.

Helios ignored everything he blabbered on about, especially the slurred subtext she picked up. She shook her head and stood tall. "I'm the inquisitor!" She said, making a fist and putting it to her chest, in a sign of pledge. 

"Okay, yeah, and I am too," He tried to stand up, and failed. His legs were jelly, and wow, that really did hurt. Who had he slept with?

"No you're not!" She roared. She really wished she hadn't gone to sleep. This was a dream for Andraste's sake. And she had been right to dread it. 

"Can you chill, please?" He quipped, seriously, and then snorted when he realized his pun. Bits of snow still clung to his hair.

Helios rolled her eyes again, this time so hard that it hurt. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. She collapsed on a patch of unfrozen grass, drained from overreacting. She was trying to untangle the mess around her, but her willpower was dropping drastically. Perhaps it was time to divert to a discussion of what was going on, rather than her frantically creating an ice palace out of the silent grove. She sat cross-legged with her cheek placed on her fist, making one half of her face look squished, hunched over as she looked at him.

Tynnian was still giggling, seemingly unable to stop. "So, we're the Inquisitor," He said to the sky. He tried to keep a straight face, but dissolved into laughter again. He curled into a ball, muffling it into his knees.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" She said flatly. "A drunk idiot. Who would ever put you in charge of saving the world?"

"Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, apparently," He answered. "Because, you see, in my world, I'm the one who walked out of the Fade," It was unclear if he was joking or truly stating his opinion on the situation. It might've been his most level-headed response so far. 

Helios grimaced all the same. "I feel lucky I'm not from your world," She said, with disgust. "Is that what this is? Two alternate universes?" She turned and laid back, so her head was close to his, and she could hear him. The air surrounding him smelled strongly of several different types of alcohol. Her nose remained wrinkled in distaste. Did alternate universes even exist? Joining the Inquisition had been rather trying on her beliefs of what was and wasn't real, of what was feasible and what was complete nonsense. 

"That's what it seems like," He laughed a little, and then swallowed hard. It "Ah...well...shit."

"Not so funny anymore, huh?" She snapped, folding her hands over her middle. "Double the apocalypse." 

"Doesn't make very much sense. But it explains why we almost exploded before," He squinted. Things were starting to become more clear now, he figured he was on the road to sobering up. The clouds weren't spinning anymore. It was both disappointing and well-needed.

Helios, for once, resisted against her voice of reason, and treated the conversation like a hypothetical example rather than something that was truly occurring. "We share the Anchor. What else do we share?" She wondered aloud. 

Tynnian had closed his eyes drowsily, considering. Was she the female version of him, in another world? Or perhaps the other way around? Or maybe they were completely unconnected? She had said her last name was Lavellan, he remembered that a little too clearly, because of the way it had haunted him. None of this was... really real. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "The Inquisition. Probably the people we know. The experiences we have?" He put little effort into his slow response. 

"Lovely," She answered sarcastically. 

"Isn't it?" He tried to make his voice sound peppy, but it came out wrong.

They sighed, strangely in harmony, and stared into the clouds. There was much to ask, to understand about this impossible scenario, but Tynnian was drunk and Helios had spent all of her scarcely limited "I care" cards for that particular day. 

It was still very unlikely that this was a genuine convergence of two timelines. Just a dream, as vivid as it was, and it would pass on and fade to memory and nothing more. Even if, in theory, the faces one dreams about are all faces they have seen before.


	5. denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The closest I could come to an ending for this disaster.

A distant memory, only recently resurfaced...

Tynnian mindlessly wandered through the forest, lost, but comforted by the dense, warm green of the canopies. It was a nice change from the frigid air of the Frostback Mountains, and yet still, he did not indulge. Here, his face could hang weary, his eyes clouded, as his feet dragged through the underbrush. He didn't even bother to imagine a time when he used to have good dreams, nor care for the confusing visions he'd see now. He missed his home. Now, nothing ever went right: foiled around every corner.

This was his first dream since the fall of Haven, that night in the temporary camp after the Inquisition had found him, close to death from the cold. Before he'd woken to the advisors arguing, with Mother Giselle at his side. He was frostbitten in his sleep, hopeless, helpless, he felt like he'd lost it all. And he blamed himself.

He slumped against a log, head falling into his hands. Here, he was a slave to his misery. He had no will to be strong.

"Do you have no fire?" A voice asked him, somewhere over his shoulder. It sounded distant and whimsical, like it belonged to no physical body.

Tynnian thought a moment, and then answered sorely, his voice crackling. "I am the fire..." He leaned his head back, eyes closed. It was in someone's lap now - their hands stroked through his hair, gentle as a summer breeze. "But no one is mine."

He didn't usually speak this way, such serious riddles in his heavy voice. His sense of judgement, and of standing, had drifted upon his arrival in the world of dreams. He felt like he was better off made of stone. 

"I understand," The voice responded. It must've been a spirit. 

"No one can understand this," He argued, but without momentum.

"You'd be surprised." The voice wasn't so reserved anymore. The hands were removed from his head, and he turned to protest: the feeling calmed him.

He saw it then. The shape that the voice belonged to was grey and fuzzy, vaguely a woman's shadow, like someone who was halfway within his reach. She was collapsing from where she hunched on the log, giving out.

He caught her. She clung to him, such a change from the way she had comforted him before. He did not want to know her toil, only to ease it. He wrapped his arms around the ghost, needing her as an anchor just as much as she apparently needed him.

And then she was gone.

-

Helios didn't know whose hair she stroked, who she spoke so wisely to. Helping others always seemed to reverse her inner conflicts. No matter how much she may be suffering, how daunted she was by the first real assault by the enemy, the robbing of her base and the slaughter of innocents, she wanted to help another above herself.

The air was thick and humid around her, so different to what she'd become accustomed to. Her hands threaded through tresses that she could not see, because she was certain that it was a spirit she was soothing. It was ashen and blurred, glitching, as if it didn't belong there.

But she helped nonetheless. She empathized with its pain, its feeling of loss and distance. She had never felt so lost in her life: hours of trekking through the mess of an avalanche, turning frosty blue from the snow. Confusion, shock, devastation.

The voice that spoke to her was perhaps a man's, echoing through the carefully crafted expanse of the damp forest. It could be the Kocari Wilds, or the Tellari Swamps. Or a location that was entirely fictitious. She was not sure. She was not sure of anything anymore.

She didn't notice when she was suddenly falling, sliding right off the log where she'd been sitting. But the spirit was looking at her: he caught her. He held her. She did not resist the urge to hold to him, the one thing she knew was there at the moment. 

And then he was gone.


End file.
